


Madness of the Two, The

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-07-31
Updated: 1998-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-20 18:55:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11341338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived atThe Basement, which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onThe Basement's collection profile.





	Madness of the Two, The

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

The Madness of the Two by Rebekah Rogers

The Madness of the Two  
  
(Rebekah Rogers)  
SK/S, SK/M

* * *

Part 1

She lied to me.

She stood in front of me, cool as pie, straight and narrow, laced and buttoned, calm and serene. Neither a pat of butter nor a human being would melt in that mouth. She looked me in the eye and lied to me.

Surprise. It's her job to lie for his sake. It's my job to believe it. It's their job to keep each other clean and me ignorant -- it's my job to keep everyone else ignorant. It's her job to look cool and straight and look me in the eye and lie to me.

But *is* she keeping him clean? How can she be keeping him out of trouble if she's here and *I'm* the one telling her where he is? And what about the autopsy? What does it mean, him scheduling it, her accepting it, me being the one to inform her? If *she's* not looking out for him, who is?

And how the hell can I help him if she's covering FOR him, but not covering him? They're not brother and sister for god's sake. He's not playing ball in the house. If something's wrong between them, someone might end up dead.

Or in jail again. Does he think there are an infinite number of strings I can pull to keep him in the bureau, keep him in the basement, keep him out of prison? Even my luck runs out sometimes...........

And there is nothing I can do. I've let her lie to me too many times. I've let them use me this way too many times. I can't make her see me any other way. I can't grab her and shake some sense into her. I can't pin her to the wall, take her face in my hands, claim her mouth until she is breathless and then somehow force her to tell me the truth. Force her to let me *in*, to let me be one of their two-man conspiracy, to let me know, for once, what the hell is going on.

It wouldn't be too hard. I would be sure we weren't disturbed. It would be late at night. She wouldn't hesitate to meet me under odd circumstances. Her whole life is odd circumstances. Her body is small, but strong and well trained. I'll have bruises. Of course, she might not even be surprised when I suddenly pushed her to the wall, her jaw in my hand, her eyes forced to meet mine. She and I have pulled guns on each other, how many times? We've been through worse. She might only be mildly surprised. She might even be cool, straight laced, and wait for the explanation.

But I wouldn't give her room to be cool. Her cool is hard work, sometimes a strain, sometimes nearly impossible. She gives it her all. She must always be in control. Here, in the half-light, shut away from her insane burdens, shielded, by my body, from the world, she could let go of that cool. If control were not required, if control were not *possible*, if control were handed completly and utterly over to me, THEN she could let go. Then butter, or a human being, could melt in her mouth. Then she could melt, as well.

Control would be entirely mine. In my arms, under my hands, without options, she could give in. She could let other thoughts finally enter her mind, other sensations enter her beautiful body. In a world where she must be twice as tall, twice as heavy, twice as intelligent and twice as cold as the other %50 of the population, in a world where her coworkers are her competitors, in a world where she fights to live up to the impossible dreams of dead father, in that world, she must strain to stand tall. But in a world of smoke and mirrors, aliens and insanity, she must kill to survive. In the darkness, behind locked doors, protected by my body, she could rest.

And when I was done, when she had screamed in release and collapsed in my arms, when she had relaxed, just for a few moments, in that safe place, then I could ask her. Then I could get from her the things most intimate.

She would answer my question. She would tell me the official story, and the real story, and the connection between the two. She would tell me her theory; the one that balances Mulder's current flight of fancy.

But then she would tell me the rest. Without her partner to contradict, without that extreme to balance out, she would actually *tell me.* What she *really* thinks. What she fears. What she thinks about what she fears. I, and I alone, would have her private thoughts. Having surrendered her body to me, she could also surrender those things even more precious. Somehow, in frantic moments of sweat and heat and breath, she has given me more than she has given any man.

And what do I do with that information? Realize it is my duty to have Mulder arrested and committed to a padded room? Or just order her to go to him, while I stay behind and fear for his life, like a mother waiting for the teen with the car? Just what, Assistant Director Skinner, do you plan to do with this information?

I can see it now. It is an amusing scene. We kneel together in a half-collapse against the wall of my dark office. I am spent -- buried still deep inside her. Her eyes half-closed, panting, she rests a sweaty forehead against the wall. The room is silent, the air cool against our heated skin. I recover first. I must. I have taken her, but she, more importantly, has been taken. I have stripped away her defenses, now I must be her defense. I hold her in my arms, molding her tiny frame against my body. I pull her head back so that she rests on me. I smooth her damp hair back and press my lips to her flushed skin. My arms must be her shell until she can find hers again.

Now, in this moment, I can have her. I can ask her anything and she must give it to me. She has surrendered to me. I cannot be denied.

So what do I ask?

"When the hell are you going to Chicago?"

I won't ask her a solitary question. I won't ask for information that I might have to give others. I won't have facts that I must be responsibl for. I will simply trust her, as I always have, with the life of my insane prodigal agent. I will simply order her to go to him, help him, reason with him and, at whatever cost, bring him back alive. Shoot him in the arm again if you have to, but bring him back alive.

And if you need anything, *anything*, for the love of god CALL me and ask! Stop treating me like the parent that must be avoided or the teacher that must be evaded or, heaven forbid, the *boss* that must be fooled. Treat me like you treat him. Make me a partner.

And she would do whatever I demanded. At the moment I could not be denied.

Having taken her apart, I would gently put her back together. I would comfort her with the warmth of my body for as long as her stripped soul required it. And then, when she needed to be Scully again, I would let go. She would recover on her own. She would take back her armor and prepare to face the world again.

"Anything else, sir?"

And she would be off.

I would watch her walk away from my office window; no more satisfied than before. I don't *want* to dominate her. I don't want to force from her what she has buried beneath layers of armor. I want her to hand it over to me on a silver platter with a flourish and a smile. I want her to come to me voluntarily. I want her to *come* voluntarily. I want her to look at me like,

like,

like a partner.

But I am only her boss. I am only the man who pulls infinite strings to keep her with him. I am only the one who works at the home office while she works on the field while we work together to keep our insane prodigal son out of the asylum. *That* is our partnership -- our unacknowledged, unspoken, unrequited and very unrewarding partnership. 

And she is my agent. My duty, as well as my body, longs to do more for her. But in this polite society, one does not offer physical release from unrelenting stress to one's agent in the form of S&M. In this polite society, one does not push one's subordinate to the wall and make her come 'till she screams.

One can make bargains with smoke-breathing men in dark rooms for impossible information on encrypted documents, and search for one's true love amoung the smoking corpses of alien-watching cults. But one cannot push one's true love to the wall and make her come 'till she screams.

Damn this polite society.

And damn her. She lied to me. 

\----------------------------------------

Part 2

I had to jump him. 

I sat in front of me, eyes wide, skin flushed, confused and irrational, even for him. He scared me, badly. I yelled and I hollered and I kept raising my voice -- yelled out what the hell ever came out of my mouth --anything to shock him out of whatever had possessed him. But in the end I had to jump him.

Surprise. It's his job to go off the deep end. I think they expect him to do it now. It's his job to go off and my job to fight it and somewhere the smoky men calling the shots are playing us like pawns. Queen pawn to queen four. Knight to bishop 3. Isn't that the game? He finds a chink in their armor. Scully fine-tunes his theory. He goes off on a tangent. They follow him and destroy the evidence. I keep him from getting kicked out of the game. Isn't that the script?

But is he off the deep end, as usual? I ordered him to stop struggling, he obeyed. He calmed down. Why was he shooting and yelling? Will he turn out to be correct, like many times before? Will I be left in the dark again? When he pushes me away, how can I protect him?

I don't really believe he's seeing zombies or zombie-makers. I'm sure he sees something, and if he were well, he would find out what it is. But he's not well. I think he's cracking under the unrelenting stress. 

He needs a little stress relief.

But he has no one, now. Whatever he had with Scully is straining. They've cooled towards each other -- I had to send her after him. I offer my support; he turns me away. She offers him her partnership, now he turns from her as well. What the hell does he have to hold onto?

I can lead him to water. But he has built up the layers so thick and so deep, he can't let anyone in. I can lead him to water. I can bodily pick him up and throw him in. I can hold him under and drown him, if I want. But will he drink?

How can I help him?

I could call him to my office in the night. He wouldn't be surprised at the odd circumstances. But he WOULD be ready for an attack. He's always ready for an attack. His younger body and paranoid reflexes would make it difficult; I'd have bruises. I'd have weight and experience and surprise on my side. It might work.

Or I could just grab him and shake some sense into him. I could just surprise the hell out of him and claim his mouth until he was speechless. I could press him against the wall with my hands and my body, pushing, kneading, exploring him with hands and tongue until he was breathless, and then somehow force him to tell me the truth.

We've pulled guns on each other, jumped and attacked and threatened each other, we've been nose to nose, teeth to teeth, how much of a surprise would it be? He would try to defend himself, but I might surprise him enough to get the upper hand.

Of course, he can be cool, as well. Nonchalant, cavalier, he can be maddening. He might just relax and be patient, waiting for the explanation. He might be cocky. He might even grin.

But I wouldn't let him grin. Maddening grin or none, he has taken the world on his shoulders, and he won't let it go without a fight. I must take it from him.

Control would be entirely mine. In my grip, under my hands, without the ability to hide, to hustle, or to con, he would give in. He would forget about the insane world he has discovered. He would let other sensations enter that beautiful body. In the darkness, behind locked doors, protected by my hands and my body, protected by my strength, he could, for the moment, let go. 

But *could* he? Caught between his lover and the wall, hidden in the darkness and his the arms of the one who wants him the most, even there, would he really let go?

I can see it now. We kneel together against the wall in the darkness. I am spent, still buried deep inside him. Our breath comes in short pants, together, reminding me, in a gentle way, of the rhythm we had created just before. His eyes are closed, his head leaning, almost collapsed on the wall in front of him. His face is relaxed, almost calm. Other than our breath the room is silent, the air cool against my damp skin.

I recover first. Maybe he does not need my strength now; maybe he could put himself back together on his own. But I don't allow him time to find out. I have taken him, and I remind him that he has been taken. I am his defense in this moment before he finds his defenses. I keep him in my arms, molding his beautiful long body against mine. 

Finally, when he seems ready, I rise. I pull him to his feet, holding him steady on his shaky legs. I help him with his disheveled clothes. I put on his tie. He doesn't protest. I dress him like a child. He is completely compliant.

"Anything else, sir?"

And he would be off.

I would watch him walk away from my office window; no more satisfied than before. I don't *want* to dominate him. I don't want to force from him what he has buried beneath layers of armor. I want him to give it all to me freely. I want him to come to me voluntarily. I want him to look at me like,

like,

like he looks at her.

But I am only his boss. But in this polite society, one does not offer physical release from unrelenting stress to one's agent, even if he's cracking underneath that stress. But one does not physically provide the emotional support necessary for survival, even if that is all he will take from me. Even if I am the only one who can force it on him. In this polite society, one does not push one's subordinate to the wall and make him come 'till he screams.

One can watch agents disappear off of mountaintops, having them reappear with impossible diseases, only to get cancer from the implants in their necks until you sit outside their hospital beds holding bloodstained pictures of your beloved agent and pondering the whereabouts of the bleeder. But one cannot push that beloved agent to the wall and make him come 'till he screams.

Damn this polite society. Damn this insane world existing in the shadows, and damn Mulder for finding it.

And damn the men in the white coats that came and took him away from me. He doesn't need to be locked up. He just needs to get laid. He needs some sense beaten into him.

And despite this mad, impossible society, I may just have to be the one to do it.

End


End file.
